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The Dancers Are Ready. Where Are G.O.P. Laps?

When Eileen Shedroff writes her tell-all memoir of the life of a lap dancer, the chapter on the 2004 Republican National Convention is likely to be rather short.

By 1:30 a.m. yesterday, Ms. Shedroff, along with her employers at the Penthouse Executive Club, had been hoping for a bumper crop of delegates fresh from the Garden, fired up by Rudolph W. Giuliani and John McCain and looking to blow off steam and bucks.

But around the club's cavernous interior, the areas where the V.I.P.'s sit -- one section went by the name The Egg -- were empty. The private rooms upstairs were empty, even the one done up in sumptuous Republican-red velvet. Lounging around the pit were about 40 other dancers and three, count 'em, convention attendees from Indiana, as well as a couple of other paying customers.

Ms. Shedroff threw a few $20-a-song dances to a dour-looking man in a yellow tie who told her he was a delegate, then she decamped to the bar after catching a glimpse of the contents of his wallet when he went to pay her.

Mark Yackow, the chief executive of the club, just off the West Side Highway at 45th Street, had promoted hard but kept his hopes in check. He knew that the delegates would not spend like the high-rolling regulars who would doubtless be chased off by the convention clampdown. But he thought maybe the convention volume would be enough to offset their absence, so he booked about 20 percent more dancers than he normally would for a week in late August.

As it turns out, so far, the turnout, he says, has been lacking. "We still have faith that the next few nights there'll be an influx of delegates and convention people going to the club," Mr. Yackow said yesterday afternoon. "But if it doesn't come in the next few days, it is what it is."

Bianca, a dancer from Puerto Rico, said it was the same stuff, different state with a group of delegates and their friends from North Carolina on Saturday. "This guy bought me two drinks. I tried to get him to dance. He wouldn't do it. He tells me, 'I'm very conservative, my friends made me come here.' He was really uncomfortable."

Mr. Yackow was not sure what had kept this particular collection of Republicans away. In any case, he said, the Big East college basketball tournament is about the only event in New York that can be reliably counted on to cause a big spike in club attendance.

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Another blond dancer, named Betty, sitting at the bar, said she knew where the delegates were. "Everyone's at the after parties," she said. "Cipriani's having a big one."

Betty sipped her drink. "If I had known this was the deal I would have gone on vacation this week instead of last week," she said, her oddly expressionless sculpted face mismatched to her bitter voice. "I think I'll go on vacation again starting tomorrow."

Eventually, one of the gentlemen from Indiana, a young-faced man with fine silver hair and an American flag on his lapel, followed a dancer up to one of the private rooms. Ms. Shedroff's place on the dour man's lap was taken by a pneumatic brunette.

Ms. Shedroff, who said she really is writing a book about her experiences, cast a gimlet eye across the room as her colleague wriggled in the man's face and pulled on his tie. He scrutinized her chest as if it were the rider on an appropriations bill.

"She's going to spend two hours to get that $100," Ms. Shedroff said. Sure enough, after paying for a handful of dances, the man stopped going to his wallet, though his interest in the dancer did not seem to diminish. She stayed with him, reading with apparent interest what looked like a convention program that he handed her. Maybe he was a great conversationalist. Or maybe it was just that it was a buyer's market and the dancer had nothing better to do.

Soon Ms. Shedroff's name was called and she had to go up to the stage and grind away to "Rock the Cradle of Love" to an emptying house. A little later, the silver-haired man came downstairs, rejoined his friends, flashed one of them his wallet, which still appeared to have something in it, and broke into a grin. He dropped by the bar one last time and nodded toward Ms. Shedroff.

"The bus is leaving," he told her. "Gotta go." She did not get up to say goodbye.

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A version of this article appears in print on September 1, 2004, on Page P00010 of the National edition with the headline: THE REPUBLICANS: THE CONVENTION IN NEW YORK -- MIXED COMPANY; The Dancers Are Ready. Where Are G.O.P. Laps?. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe